


destination: maybe

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [30]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, M/M, POV Second Person, trains and liminal spaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 19:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: If you followed this line, this is what you would find: grit and persistence, a grain caught in your shoe where you least expect it, the smell of salt on the air. You hesitate.Kenma at a train station with a ticket.





	destination: maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 5: Clue | [originally posted here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/24808.html?thread=15261672#cmt15261672)

_Where are you going, little cat?_

 

* * *

 

There are many ways this story could go.

This train line is made of neat little stitches in autumn red, the kind that Keiji made once in the hem of your jacket. You’d torn it on a stray branch when you visited Hirosaki to see the cherry blossoms. You remember leaning back against the wall of his room, hugging your knees to your chest as you watched him work. His deliberate fingers, threading the needle. The slight smile on his face when he assured you this was something he did all the time, that one did not grow up the youngest of three rough-housing brothers without being saddled with some domestic tasks.

You think you know where a line like this would take you. It is one kind of closure, the seam tied off into a careful knot at the end. If there is a fissure, parallel threads that will never quite meet, it is not because you did not try. Keiji’s needle pierces true.

That jacket still hangs in your cupboard. You let the ticket go, watch the wind sweep it away, and turn back.

 

* * *

 

This train line is made of sand.

You hate the beach. It’s sticky and uncomfortable and sometimes there are jellyfish that sting. The prospect of _mixed-team beach volleyball!_ , thrown out so enthusiastically by one Bokuto Koutarou, doesn’t make it any more appealing. After diving for a ball that Kuro spikes over to an inconvenient corner, you glare at him, swap out with Inuoka and beat a hasty retreat to a spot under an umbrella.

It is there that Keiji finds you. He does not come bearing watermelon, or a drink, or anything of the sort. He comes alone and unadorned and all he has is a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, words to tell you, _thank you for joining us today. I’m glad you’re here._

On your way back later, the bus isn’t air-conditioned, so you roll down the windows and let the evening breeze in. You can still feel the sand on the soles of your feet. It slips through your toes like the waves on the shore.

If you followed this line, this is what you would find: grit and persistence, a grain caught in your shoe where you least expect it, the smell of salt on the air. You hesitate. There’s a ticket burning a stubborn hole in your pocket, and you hate the beach, but you wonder if you should go anyway.

 

* * *

 

This train line is made of lights.

If you had been of a more romantic bent, you suppose they might have been fireflies, or something like that. Lanterns strung up at a festival, glowing warm to match the flush on your face. _It’s hot,_ you’d say, in response to Keiji’s lingering glance, and take his hand, lead him over to the riverbank where the summer wind waits.

But you’re not like that. These are smudgy neon lights, the pulse of a notification on your phone at 2 AM, a shooting game at the arcade where you once faced off, eye to eye, not speaking a word the whole time. Every time you hit the target, something sparked. You both posted high scores that day and traded your prizes for more tokens, another afternoon and another exchange of smiles.

This line is patterned in texts with your name on it, in sleepless nights, winding its way across the city. It thrums with its own kind of quiet excitement, with uncertainty.

You study the ticket in your hand, and read the destination on it again.

 

* * *

 

This train line is made of metal and ballast.

It is an ordinary line. The rails are weathered and well-worn, familiar tracks you grew up with, waiting at the crossing sign after school. The years have faded them into a coppery brown, the colour of the gravel and stones that make up their bedrock.

When you look at this line, you know it won’t bring you anywhere _special_ : just to tomorrow, and to the other side of somewhere you could get used to, that maybe you’re already used to.

If you had to pick a line to remind you of Keiji, it might be this one.

 

* * *

 

_Where are you going, little cat?_

There are many ways the story could go.

You slip your ticket into the machine, and make your choice.


End file.
